


My Demons (My Colors)

by gaypanic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: BEARD FREE, Colors, Dark Swan Arc, F/F, Happy Ending, No Hook, No Robin, POV Second Person, dark!swan, low key horror, no camelot, season 5 rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-02 12:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15796155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaypanic/pseuds/gaypanic
Summary: the last thing you remember is darkness snaking down your arm, coiling around your body, and pulling you into a void.the next thing you know, you're standing in a forest surrounded by trees, wearing unfamiliar clothes while a dark and powerful magic settles in your body, leaving a buzzing in your veins.you think nothing could be more unsettling, but then your eyes adjust to the world around you—on the trees and the ground and the sky.there's not a spot of color in sight.but then regina shows up.[a dark!swan rewrite]





	My Demons (My Colors)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pearsonasnic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearsonasnic/gifts).
  * Inspired by [my demons [fanvid]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676707) by [pearsonasnic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearsonasnic/pseuds/pearsonasnic). 



> if you haven’t seen [nic’s video, the inspiration for this fic,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676707) GO RIGHT NOW. DO IT. it’s a masterpiece in and of itself and i hope that my words can live up to everything the video is. 
> 
> every em dash in this story is dedicated to CJ because i finally got my formatting right in google docs after like, five years.
> 
> thank you to laura for beta-ing, danny for your support, jan for cheering me on, nic for the [amazing inspiration and opportunity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676707), and to the sqsn mods for organizing this whole event!

 

Everything is dark.

 

It was dark when you watched the world disappear, and it’s still dark now that your eyes are opening. It makes sense that your vision needs to readjust; you’ve just been sucked up by literal darkness after all, and even though you don’t know where it’s taken you, it makes sense that smaller sacrifices will inevitably come with larger ones.

 

Really, all you can do is hope this isn’t permanent.

 

As you wait for your vision to return, you decide to remain in place, figuring it best not to blindly wander through what has the potential to be any realm. You take a moment to put your other senses to good use, feeling your hooded and tattered clothes, hearing the rustling of leaves and birds chirping, smelling sappy trees and a vaguely familiar odor you can’t place.

 

In the end, it’s not as telling as the force of darkness that shoots through you when you hear a voice from behind.

 

You can see it’s a hooded figure, but nothing else about it stands out. It looms only meters away like a threat, and even though you don’t have anyone around you that needs protecting, you still try using magic to attack just to have the upper hand.

 

It works, and the magic spills out in a stream. It looks like something that should be light, but isn’t. And something you should be able to control, but don’t want to.

 

The attack goes through the figure before they disappear entirely. You aren’t sure what scares you more until you realize your vision is back.

 

It’s black and white.

 

At first, you think you’re dreaming.

 

If there were cases of the Dark One having grayscale vision, you’re sure you would have heard about it before now, unless this was the first time.

 

You think if only you could figure out where you were, you might be able to find someone to ask, but all you know is that you’re in the middle of a forest in the middle of an unknown realm, and there’s no one around to ask.

 

For now, anyway.

 

In the meantime, you find that you’re okay with being alone, and even though you don’t feel like you should be giving in to the dark magic, even if it’s just for self-defense, you feel better knowing that you have the option.

 

So you flex your fingers, feeling the sparks of magic firing within you, running through your veins and into your fingertips, buzzing at the surface as if begging to be used. Needless to say, you hold back.

 

It’s only by instinct that you decide to wander through the trees, wondering what else is out there, or if there are any other imminent threats surrounding you.

 

When you see another hooded figure, you freeze.

 

It reaches out to you, holds its finger out and beckons. You try to ignore it, but it inches closer. You can’t help but wonder if its cloak really is black or maybe if it’s just a deep purple or blue, but with its sinister presence, you’re sold on the idea that it’s just black.

 

It stays still for a moment so you turn away, but it’s not until you’ve lurked a few feet in another direction that you realize your pacing is in step with the figure’s.

 

You look down, hoping your cloak isn’t dark like the figure’s too.

 

You’re pleased to find it looking more light gray, but you shiver nonetheless.

 

The time that has elapsed since you started walking is undetermined, but it’s been long enough that you know you’re in a different place than before, even if everything holds a vague sense of familiarity.

 

You’re almost not surprised when you hear your name echoing through the forest.

 

What you are undoubtedly surprised by is the way the trees seem to light up a bright green for just a moment before everything fades back to black and white.

 

You see Henry before you see anyone else, and his presence is enough to make you forget about color at all, as well as the dark magic just barely contained at your palms.

 

The cloaked figure doesn’t occur to you until Henry crashes into you and your arms loop around him, your cheek pressing against his hair, but by that time, it’s too late, and with Henry in your embrace, you can only suppress the magic further, hoping he won’t be a victim to forces beyond your control.

 

Your eyes drift warily toward the figure, and before you can look away, Regina appears next to you, following your gaze.

 

“What are you looking at?” she asks, and you turn to her with a frown.

 

“You can’t see it?”

 

She looks back at you in response, her expression mirroring yours. She shakes her head before glancing back, and the figure is gone when you do the same. You decide not to say anything, left wondering if being a dark one makes you both achromatopsic and psychotic.

 

“Where am I?” you ask, hoping for any kind of information to ground you, anything to make sense of this whole mess, or maybe even something to indicate that this is all just a bad dream.

 

Your mother is the one to answer. “You’re in Storybrooke,” she tells you, her voice slipping out in slow waves, like she’s unsure of how to act around you. It makes you wonder if you look any different, if your skin is scaly like Rumpelstiltskin’s or a different hue like Zelena's, but when you glance down at your hand, you just see what looks to be normal skin, pale like it always has been and almost translucent with your new monochrome eyesight. But then her response hits you, and you meet her gaze, your mouth a tight line.

 

“Storybrooke?”

 

David nods. “In the woods. We were expecting you to be in another realm completely, but clearly we got lucky. Regina had a spell that was able to lead us to you. We almost used the dagger, but…” he trails off, exchanging a look with Regina. You look between them helplessly, having not considered the dagger until now.

 

Your eyes linger on Regina, who avoids your gaze as she pulls aside her blazer and reaches for something in the inside pocket. You know what she’s reaching for before she pulls it out, and your eyes zero in on your name etched into the side of the metal.

 

“When you disappeared, this was left in your place,” Regina explains as she moves closer to you. Henry slides over toward his grandparents, turning his face away from the dagger. “I thought you might like to have it.”

 

She holds it out to you, eyes full of trust, and you hold out your hand to take it.

 

It’s cold against your skin, but there’s a rush of power surging through you when you coil your fingers around the hilt. You’re not sure if it scares you too much to have it or if you like it too much to keep it, so you hold it back out to Regina, your eyes on hers rather than the dagger.

 

“I saved you, now save me.”

 

She looks down at the dagger unsure before her eyes meet yours, and she takes it from you with a curt nod, your fingers brushing together softly before you let your hand drop.

 

That’s when the green reappears, bursting through the trees as if bringing them back to life.

 

Only this time, it doesn’t fade out.

 

* * *

  

You try to hold onto the color for as long as you can, but it keeps flickering between a nonopaque greenish-gray and the vibrant green it’s supposed to be—you don’t know why.

 

It might have something to do with the hooded figures that seem to be watching you at every turn.

 

Regina’s eyes follow yours while you seek them out one by one, but you say nothing about them. You meet her eyes and fake a smile, pretending that nothing has happened, pretending that you have seen nothing, and pretend like you have the full range of colors that have become nothing but a memory.

 

You’re not sure it’s smart to open up about that, so you don’t.

 

It doesn’t get brought up at all until a few nights later when you can’t sleep. Tired of tossing and turning in a bed that feels unfamiliar, in a house that’s too empty and quiet, you decide to go for a run.

 

Something about going out at night is both comforting and disconcerting. Faced with the only shade your vision is capable of registering makes you feel a little more normal, but it also highlights the fact that your other colors are still missing. But night mutes all colors, regardless of whether you can see them or not.

 

When it’s dark, you can’t see the green, just the shadows of it.

 

Just shadows.

 

Looming behind the green of the trees, too dark to make out, are more shadows—the figures that you always seem to see but aren’t sure how real they are.

 

They _look_ real.

 

They _feel_ real when you knock them back with the dark magic you’re supposed to be keeping at bay, and they _sound_ real when they whisper to you.

 

You’ve been making a point not to whisper back, but tonight you do when you think you see the forest green of the trees turn blacker.

 

“What’s wrong with my eyesight?”

 

You don’t get an answer.

 

“Are Dark Ones colorblind?”

 

You don’t get an answer.

 

“I can see green sometimes,” you hesitantly admit.

 

Once again the response is nothing but silence, but somehow this shadow of sound looms longer, more still and more quiet. You’ve gotten their attention.

 

When they do respond to you, they don’t use words, not in a conventional sense, but regardless, you can understand whatever they’re telling you. It’s the kind of communication that affirms their authenticity even more in your mind, but in turn makes you question the validity of your own existence.

 

You find out that you aren’t supposed to have color. You’re not supposed to have any light left in you. No light magic, no light feelings, no color. You’re the Dark One, and you have obligations now. There are new rules to follow, and there are consequences if you don’t take on the role.

 

There’s a moment when you wonder what would happen if you shrugged it off. If you ignored the figures, went home, embraced the colors and tried to bring light magic back into your palms. One of the figures growls then; its form seems to flicker, but it’s already been proven to you that you can’t trust your own vision.

 

So you _do_ shrug. You _do_ go back home. But you don’t ignore the figures. Instead, you give in. You listen to their low, impossible voices as they train you on dark magic; you watch it swirl around in your hand and let the green fade away.

 

 

At first, it’s easy.

 

You forget the way your eyes had glowed green in the mirror for a few days before there was nothing but trace hints of color streaked in with a dull gray that sometimes just looks dark.

 

It’s safe to say that _darkness_ is something you’ve grown accustomed to.

 

In your isolation, everything seems to get darker, but that could just be because you don’t turn on the lights in your house, hoping no one comes by to try and talk to you. You change your clothes into something you figure that a dark one would wear, something that feeds into the darkness in you that you're now embracing, and you receive nods of approval from the cloaked figures that always seem to be lurking about.

 

You don’t talk to anyone.

 

You don’t see anyone.

 

You're not sure you want to.

 

Somehow your new persona has become a source of shame. Like doing something you know is wrong and going to great lengths to hide it. Like turning your phone away when you're embarrassed about what's on the screen or swallowing half a cookie in one go so no one knows you were just eating it.

 

Only this is a little more serious.

 

You'd thought actually being the Dark One would feel a little better.

 

But the memory of color seems to be a recurring thought you can’t shake, and you find yourself missing it, trying to find ways to bring it back, even if briefly.

 

Your magic can do a lot of things, but conjuring color isn’t one of them.

 

Ultimately, you give up, thinking maybe you’re better off without color anyway. It’s the kind of giving in to darkness that you never expected to be doing, but if you’re the Dark One now, you might as well accept it and steer into the skid.

 

(It’s unfortunate that you’re learning this method of dealing with things now.)

 

(It may have been handy sorting through some of your emotions prior to all this—

 

but you refuse to let yourself go there.)

 

* * *

 

You start to lurk, just like the figures do. Only you’re not like them creeping through the streets of Storybrooke unnoticed. You turn heads. It’s probably your new look, and you can’t really blame the wide-eyed stares you get. The first time you looked in the mirror, you didn’t even recognize yourself.

 

Black garments, white skin, white hair, white features. Dark eyes.

 

You had reached two fingers up to your neck against your pulse point, letting out a relieved breath when you felt the blood still pumping through your carotid, a reminder that you’re alive, even if you’re not really living.

 

The figures are watching you, so you drop your hand and glide across the dark street toward Granny’s, pausing as you let yourself feel wistful, but you don’t allow expression to cross your face because the figures don’t want that.

 

They want the darkness.

 

They want the light gone.

 

You hear whispered reminders about how this isn’t your place anymore. That just because people who share your blood are in that diner, smiling and laughing, does not mean you need to be there too.

 

There’s a moment before you turn away when your eyes land on Regina’s profile as she stands at the counter. She isn’t smiling, but she looks beautiful. Your vision changes again, and the green lights above the diner door become so bright that you squint and flinch back just enough for the figures to know you can see it.

 

They all take a hasty, singular step toward you, and that’s the moment you turn away and shake your head, trying to readjust to the vision you’re supposed to have and giving no thought as to what caused the sudden burst of color.

 

You let it fade out again.

 

* * *

 

The next time you see color, you had nearly forgotten all about it. The faint green that lingers in the trees outside, laces its way down some of your walls and flickers lightly in your eyes is something you’re not sure is real or imagined.

 

The light from Granny’s is just a white glowing light that matches the rest, not standing out at all, not exploding in color like the last time, but when you approach it, you believe the green comes back, if only slightly.

 

You don’t want the figures to notice anything wrong, so you frown as you walk toward the building with purpose, shooting a bolt of dark magic at the light and smirking as it explodes into sparks.

 

It triggers a short through the building, and by the time you swagger through the door, the power is almost entirely out, the only remaining light being a faint glow from outside.

 

You know everyone can see fine because they turn to you, eyes widening in fear, mouths hanging slack.

 

When was the last time your family saw you? In the forest maybe, but that was weeks ago. That was back when you wanted to be good. When you wanted help.

 

You don’t want that anymore.

 

(That’s what you tell yourself anyway.)

 

But so much has changed, and if the hopeless look in the eyes of your family isn’t enough to tell you that, you can catch your reflection in a nearby window or seek out the anonymous gaze of a figure in the shadow of its hood, or grip the dagger in your hand.

 

Henry sees it first.

 

“How?” he asks.

 

You know what he’s talking about without watching his eyes flicker down to it. You smirk again, but you don’t give him an answer. Not as long as there’s a cloaked figure so close to him that he would bump into it with a step.

 

He shifts on his feet, and Emma watches his shoulder go through the figure. Henry shudders but doesn’t look.

 

“Emma, stop.”

 

Her voice reaches your ears, but unlike your footsteps toward her, the sound doesn’t stop. It flows into your system as it becomes a kind of fuzzy warmth. Your eyes lock with hers. She’s pissed, but you can also see the concern, the guilt, the longing, and it’s the last thing you notice before _red_.

 

Her dress, her _lips,_ the faint pink that makes her cheeks glow.

 

Honestly, you are _stunned_.

 

But all you can do it hold up the dagger as a reminder of who you are now.

 

Regina glowers and you step back, emotionless as you leave.

 

You can still see the red long after you’ve left, and your eyes are back to their normal color when you wipe the tears from them in your bathroom only minutes later.

 

* * *

 

Your next week is spent being the Dark One.

 

Not just because your name is on the dagger, but because you have the power to prove yourself and establish your capabilities to the rest of Storybrooke. The figures kept pushing you to the edge, and it was only a matter of time before you gave in.

 

At first you only lurk, as you have been, except this time you go where more people can see you. Where you can lock eyes with them in a cold stare or let the magic skip over your fingertips, watching everyone turn to run when they see it.

 

 _It’s not enough_ , the figures tell you.

 

But you just glare at them. If they were so good at being the Dark One then how come the dagger has your name on it?

 

They don’t say anything to that.

 

For a while, you’re in control of the figures as well as the town, and you use your power mostly as a means to incite fear.

 

(There must be a reason that the color red won’t leave, and even if it’s a morbid bloodthirsty reason, you might as well make the most of it.)

 

You won’t hurt anyone though. You track down someone to yell at and settle on Victor Whale. He’s useful to the town but not liked enough to be missed, and you know it works well enough because everyone starts to panic, even before you turn him to stone.

 

Before you can turn him back, you’re being summoned to the docks.

 

Henry is waiting for you, his expression unreadable. You reach for him and he pulls away, untrusting, even though you’ve done nothing to hurt him. Even though you would never hurt him.

 

He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know he hates seeing you like this, and there’s a moment when you think of telling him about the colors. Maybe establishing an operation to get to the bottom of it, but before you can, you hear footsteps.

 

“Get away from my son.”

 

You don’t let her know you’re offended, and you don’t tell her about the hooded figure following close behind her that she can’t see.

 

It’s telling you to take care of things, and even if it's being nothing but cryptic, there are only so many things that phrasing could be indicative of.

 

You may smirk and get snarky. You may let the dark magic reach through you enough that it radiates from your skin and has the other woman scowling,

 

but you’re no killer—

 

and you’re too distracted by Regina’s red lips to bother with being evil.

 

Imagine that.

 

* * *

  

It doesn’t take you long to realize that you aren’t seeing red because you’re bloodthirsty.

 

Maybe it’s because the green is spreading more vibrant into your life again, and maybe it’s because you continue to associate the red with Regina’s lips, but either way—

 

you want the red to leave.

 

It's _distracting_.

 

So you give yourself space away from everything, remembering how that was what made the green fade to begin with.

 

A week.

 

That seems reasonable enough.

 

But the red doesn’t dissipate.

 

If anything it grows more vibrant, and you don’t know what you’re doing differently, but for some reason you feel it valid enough to blame Regina, since she was the one wearing red when the color had appeared.

 

Not to mention, for some reason, when you think of her, you swear the red brightens.

 

* * *

 

The beaming red from the stoplights shine into your eyes as you march from your house to Regina’s, and it’s a reminder of what led you here more than it is a reminder of all the things you’re missing.

 

You think that maybe if you could see more than just red you would feel that way, but you just feel angry.

 

Maybe it’s _because of_ all the red.

 

Really, you don’t want to think about that, and you try to think back to a time when you didn’t feel your blood boiling for something other than no good reason.

 

When Regina opens the door, it takes all of your effort not to react in any way because—

 

she’s wearing red—

 

she has such red lips.

 

It’s like she _knows_.

 

Her eyes burn with that same anger you felt earlier, only you can’t bring yourself to remember what the point was, and when she smiles at you, all you want is for it to be real.

 

_Regina._

 

She shakes her head, but all you can see is red.

 

Only not in the same way she can.

  

 

The next time you decide you need space, it has more to do with Regina than it does trying to get rid of the colors. Besides, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that they aren’t going anywhere.

 

(And still, you aren't sure you want them to. If it was all a part of the figures’ plan to snuff out the light, and you haven’t yet bought into it.)

 

Your eyes sting when you look in the mirror, and you’re not sure how much of it is because of their bright green hue lighting up your otherwise bland face or because you’ve been crying.

 

Any tears spilt, you let out in secret, away from the prying eyes of the dark figures that rarely leave your side. They’ve been clinging closer since your confrontation with Regina, and you don’t give them satisfaction by dismissing it.

 

 _As if you could dismiss Regina at all_.

 

You had left the porch once the door was slammed in your face, but it was warranted, and you didn’t push.

 

Regina needed space, and maybe you did too.

 

You gave it a few days, and you didn’t leave the house.

 

Honestly, you weren’t even sure you wanted to.

 

You still aren’t.

 

It really gets to you—the way that no one seems worried enough to call you and the way they seem too afraid to visit. You’re sure this getup of yours doesn’t help, and in one harrowing moment, you realize that it’s like being forced to choose between your family and the figures, between love and darkness.

 

Is it true that you can only choose one?

 

* * *

 

Your days in isolation wear on you, and you’d think it would be better still having a few colors accessible to you, but it only makes things harder.

 

Even more difficult is making the decision to leave your house and seek out the company of _real_ people (which you still aren’t convinced the figures are), and it doesn’t matter how much they whisper to you or the casual way they drift around your home, you’ll never see them as if they belong.

 

 _You don’t need to socialize_ , is one of their recurring statements. _You aren’t their friend. They aren’t yours_. They think the only reason you ought to go anywhere is to wreak havoc, to use Storybrooke citizens as target practice until there’s no one left.

 

 _What then?_ you ask them.

 

But they don’t answer.

 

They don’t need to.

 

(You don’t want them to.)

 

* * *

 

When you leave your house next, it’s after trying to _wish_ the figures away. You’re surprised that they sometimes still seem to fade out right before your eyes, like a trick of the light, their bodies flickering like a hologram. There are even times they disappear completely, but you’re not concerned about the disapparation as long as they can’t come back to hurt you (and as far as you’re aware, they can’t).

 

It’s more of the same—wandering down the street with no target destination, or at least a _plan_. You’re heading toward Granny’s, because it’s dinnertime on Wednesday, and there’s a good chance your whole family is there together.

 

You let yourself wonder if they thought about calling you.

 

You let yourself walk closer as if planning to just step through the diner’s threshold.

 

You let yourself gaze in when you see them.

 

You make yourself turn around.

 

It doesn’t take much to imagine what they would say if they saw you, the way they would cower and frown at the clothes you’ve claimed as your Dark One outfit because _this isn’t you, Emma._

 

_Yeah, no shit._

 

* * *

 

The next time you leave the house, you think more about what you’re wearing, trying to make yourself look and feel more _you._

 

You get the jeans and the tank top. You toss on a sweater so your mom won’t be worried about you getting cold. Your boots feel weird on your socked feet, cold in a way they never have been, and your jacket glows red, a contrast to everything else you have on, which you already know is black and white, normal vision or not.

 

The familiar leather slips over your shoulders as you leave the house, willing the figures to stay out of your head just this once. They do.

 

It’s relieving that they aren’t there, and it’s even more relieving the way you walk out the door in your old clothes, fitting you so perfectly it’s like a second skin, and you think about the last time you wore the jacket.

 

_“You’re gonna freeze to death in that scrappy fabric you claim to be a coat.”_

 

 _You smile over at Regina, laughing at_ her _as she laughs at_ you _, failing to hide the smile gracing her lips. “C’mon, you know someone as hot as me isn’t gonna freeze on the streets.”_

 

 _Maybe you didn’t_ freeze _, but your heart stopped beating the second you saw her blush_.

 

And now, you’re fortunate enough to have access to the color of the blood rushing to her cheeks.

 

You can only wonder now if you’ll be fortunate enough to make it happen again this time.

 

When you pass by your bug, you do a double take.

 

It’s yellow.

 

* * *

 

The walk down the street is a little bit disorienting after that. The light looks different than it had a moment ago; it represents a spectrum of light and dark, and also a spectrum of color.

 

You wonder again what caused the comeuppance of the new color, same as you had the others, but your mind keeps taking you back to Regina.

 

She’d been there when the green had come back, appearing in the forest like it had never left. She called your name and it flashed all around you. Her hand brushed against yours and it came back even brighter. You left her, and it faded.

 

She’d been the one there when the red had appeared. Your eyes locked with hers, and she bared her soul to you in just a look. It was the kind of look that could make a color explode, and it did exactly that.

 

She was the one on your mind only moments ago when the yellow beamed so bright around you, your heart skipped at the sight of the color as well as the thought of _her_.

 

The light gets brighter.

 

At the memory of _but maybe I need you._

 

At the memory of _what made you choose yellow?_ and Regina’s eyes on you at the town line after you’d been the perfect team, gazing at you with more admiration than you’d ever seen.

 

At the memory of Regina in the passenger seat of your car, opening up like she never would have only a year prior.

 

With each memory, the yellow shines brighter, more vibrant.

 

Somehow it’s more than just a _color_. It’s a feeling. It rides up your spine until your brain feels fuzzy, and it sneaks into your heart until each beat is its own glow, and it leaves sparks in your fingertips that remind you of the light magic you left behind.

 

You smile for the first time in too long.

 

But it’s short lived.

 

There’s a figure watching you from across the street as it faces Granny’s. It’s like it knew that’s where you were going, planting itself there to stop you from getting too close as it looms in the shadows, whispering for you to turn away.

 

You glance up and down the street, trying to figure out if there are any more, or if this one is alone. A part of you believes you’ll feel better if there’s only one, but even when you don’t see any more, your heart still lags in your stomach.

 

_You can’t get rid of us._

 

You wring your hands together, hesitating when you feel the dark magic under the surface—a harsh reminder of who you really are—before turning away from Granny’s.

 

The figure nods its approval only seconds before you hear your name being called across the patio of the diner.

 

“Emma?”

 

 _Keep walking_ , the figure says.

 

You stop moving.

 

“You’re back,” Regina says.

 

If you weren’t wearing your normal clothes, you might have been able to keep moving and get away with it, but even if you’re still the Dark One, you aren’t dressed the part. And this is _Regina_.

 

You can see the red of your jacket in your peripheral vision, and when you turn around, Regina’s eyes are wet as they meet yours. She’s dressed in colors you can’t see, but you think it may just be a matter of time.

 

You take a step toward her, but as you do, the figure moves, walking at an abnormally quick speed toward Regina, like it intends to hurt her, but it stops when you take an abrupt step back.

 

“I can’t—I can’t talk to you.”

 

You look away before you can see the hurt on her face.

 

It’s in retrospect that you realize she hadn’t reacted to the figure; she hadn't seen it at all.

 

* * *

 

You get angry.

 

At yourself. At your dark magic. At the figures that seem to have you bound for no reason at all.

 

Why succumb to their wishes if _you_ are the Dark One? Who are _they_ in comparison to you?

 

You storm into your house, not bothering to stifle the sound of the door slamming, but the figures in your house don’t jump at the sound. Instead they stand and stare at you, watching as you take off the red leather jacket.

 

Maybe it looks like you’re abandoning a part of yourself, but you hang the jacket in the closet with care, promising yourself that you’ll return to it. The same routine is made as you strip the remainder of your clothes and change into one of your Dark One looks.

 

This leather is more stiff, less familiar, but the tense atmosphere in your house levels out as you slide on the garments. You know it has to do with the figures that are holding you there, almost in captivity.

 

But you have power over them.

 

They aren’t even real—

 

and if it’s a dark one they want, it’s a dark one you’re going to give them.

 

 

Your plan is to ignore the figures from here on out. You have half your colors back, your family hasn’t abandoned you, and you have power over the darkness, over the figures. Not to mention, they aren’t real. You remember them disappearing into thin air, lingering near people while going undetected; and Henry's shoulder going through an intangible arm.

 

Their only power is psychological, but if your colors keep coming back, you figure they’re just as bad at maintaining that power as they are at everything else.

 

So you cause a riot in your own home for no apparent reason. _A temper tantrum_ , one of them calls it, but your only response is _at least I have a temper._

 

The figure straightens at that.

 

 _We’ll see_.

 

It disappears then.

 

In a cloud of charcoal smoke.

 

You pull back in surprise, lost on how it could achieve something so _corporeal_. It disturbs you, and the last thing you hear are the chuckles of other figures bouncing off the walls of your home before they’re silenced by the sound of a door closing, one less figure in the room.

 

It sends a chill up your spine, but you can't let them see your fear.

 

You slam the door next as you leave.

 

Stalking through the streets, you listen for anything irregular, but you hear nothing. You _poof_ closer into town in your own cloud of smoke—lighter in color than the figure’s you note—and pause in the middle of the street.

 

It’s only a matter of seconds before someone cries out in pain, and you go to the source of the noise immediately, horrified when you see one of the dwarfs (Dopey, maybe?) turned into a pillar of stone in the middle of the dark alley.

 

You know it was the figure, but without proof, you panic. You push the statue into the shadows and flee the alleyway, heading toward 108 Mifflin without second thought.

 

The figures were prepared for that move too, and they circle around Regina’s house like kids at a zoo. You approach the house anyways, glaring at them as you do.

 

At your stubborn dismissal of their authority, they don’t cower back, nor do they look surprised.

 

They _smirk._

 

You’ve hardly made it to the front door by the time it swings open, and Regina marches out with furious eyes landing on you at the base of the stairs. She lets out a heavy sigh and a _Miss Swan_ , and her hand is around your wrist before her front door slams shut, and there’s a swirl of smoke around you before your feet are firmly planted on the floor of your home.

 

You watch the smoke dissipate, a little disappointed you can’t even recall the color you know it to be, other than just _purple_. It’s only a word, hardly a memory, but when your eyes drop, you’re surprised to realize there’s another color waiting to be recognized.

 

_Blue._

 

Regina is wearing _blue_.

 

You can still feel your skin tingling where she had her fingers wrapped around your wrist, and you can’t help but smile as your eyes lock on the fabric of the lapels of Regina's jacket.

 

She watches you carefully for a long moment before shaking her head and marching to your kitchen. It’s such a familial action, and it makes you hesitate, wondering when she’d ever been in here, if she had at all, but you can’t remember.

 

By the time you catch up to her, she’s boiling some water in the kettle, her back to you as you stop halfway into the kitchen, waiting for her to explain herself.

 

Out of habit, you glance around the room, looking for the lingering figures, but they aren’t here this time. Usually, such a realization would leave you relieved, but you can’t shake the worry that something is wrong—that they're up to something.

 

Regina doesn’t speak to you until the tea is made and the mug is pushed into your hands. “We need to talk.”

 

You don’t say anything at all.

 

She leads you to the living room, and her eyes bore into your couch until you sit on it, and she turns away with a sigh of exasperation. “I got a call.”

 

You frown.

 

“People have been turned to stone,” she says.

 

Your heart drops to your stomach.

 

“Like you did to Dr. Whale.”

 

Your mouth is dry when you try to speak up, but it’s not as though you can say much anyway. Regina’s eyes on you are silencing, and this isn’t the kind of thing you’ll be able to explain your way out of, rationalize your innocence. After all, you _had_ turned the man to stone, and you’d failed to undo it.

 

Even if these recent victims aren’t on you, everyone will believe they are.

 

“Regina…” you start, but she just shakes her head.

 

You stare forward, stoic and unmoved. “Drink your tea, Emma,” Regina tells you, and you do as she says with no real reason why.

 

(It’s not because Regina knows how to make your tea better than anyone else.)

 

The silence goes on for too long, and you reach no conclusion as to how to broach this conversation or to open up about anything. There are no figures around you, but they always seem to know everything that is happening, and maybe having Regina here with you now can at least serve as a solid alibi for later when they do even more to set you up.

 

You should have never let yourself believe you held more power than them.

 

“What happened, Emma?”

 

You remain unblinking, wondering how much worse you could make this if you say anything.

 

Admitting to seeing people that don’t really exist is incriminating, especially when you’re about to be blaming them for the crimes that the whole town is accusing you of having done.

 

But Regina is here now.

 

Would she believe you?

 

You don’t want to take the chance, so you stare ahead, your eyes on something across the room you never realized was blue.

 

* * *

 

Your parents show up to your house about half an hour after you and Regina, but you don’t follow the brunette outside when she goes to greet them. You stay where you are on the couch with a blank stare and a cold cup of tea you wish you had finished earlier.

 

A figure appears before you when the door closes behind Regina, and you jump when you see it, nearly spilling the tea everywhere. You flick your wrist and the mug disappears to the kitchen.

 

“What do you want?”

 

The figure chuckles. _You know what we want_.

 

It’s not something that needs to be spoken.

 

But that doesn’t stop the inevitable follow-up.

 

_You’re the reason those people were turned to stone. That was your doing. You will take responsibility._

 

Then there’s another figure.

 

_They’re pulling you away from us._

 

_We can’t let them._

 

“What?” You glance around you. There are now at least five figures surrounding you, and even more moving in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

There’s a flash of blue out of the corner of your eye, and you swallow hard.

 

 _Yes you do_ , says one figure.

 

 _The colors_ , another confirms.

 

_We can’t let you get them all back. You can’t accept that, Dark One. You’re one of us now._

 

You can hear the voices of your parents outside, hushed yet sharp as they talk to Regina, likely about you, and you want nothing more than to go out there and reassure them that everything will be okay and that you have this under control.

 

But the fact of the matter is that you have _no_ control.

 

Not over your color.

 

Not over your magic.

 

Not over yourself.

 

_Your mother is next._

 

And not over what happens to them.

 

* * *

 

When you leave the house, you keep your face placid. You pause dramatically at the top of the stairs before descending. You keep your eyes trained on all the colors you can’t see as you try to unsee the ones you can, as if that would make the figures back off.

 

(But there aren’t many colors missing anymore, and you can’t decide if it would be safer for everyone if you could make them all disappear or if you could gain them all back.)

 

 _Not only will we stop her, we will save her_.

 

You wouldn’t have heard the words if you hadn’t been listening for them, and even now, your mom looks a little guilty for the first part of her statement, as if she knows deep down that you didn’t do it, despite all the logic stacked against you.

 

 _You didn’t think we would attack when you had an alibi, did you?_ the figures ask, and you scowl.

 

Regina’s eyes narrow at you then, and you know there’s only one thing left to do.

 

“It was me,” you admit, your face as cold and uncaring as you can make it. “You won’t stop me,” you say, ignoring the hurt on your parents’ faces. “I am the Dark One.”

 

You disappear in a cloud of white-gray smoke, wondering for the first time that yours might be purple like Regina’s.

 

 

It’s not even an hour later when you get the news.

 

Your father has been turned to stone outside of Granny’s, and there’s a witness claiming to have seen you do it.

 

You’re stunned to say the least, and that’s likely how you end up trapped where you are now.

 

It’s Gold who escorts you there in his own cloud of smoke, unusually black, and pushes you into the cage. A recreation of his own prison from back in the day when he was the Dark One.

 

As he locks the door behind you, something suddenly occurs to you.

 

“Gold,” you start. He looks up at you with a cold stare. “When you were the Dark One, did you see colors?”

 

The look remains blank for a beat. Then another. Then another. Until finally, his lip curls up into an unnatural smile, and it reminds you too much of the man he was when _he_ was the Dark One.

 

It wouldn’t bother you any if you could believe he still was.

 

But he isn’t, and his name isn’t the one on the dagger.

 

Yours is.

 

“I’ll be back to check on you,” he whispers, leaving you trapped inside the cage, gripping the bars and wishing for a way out.

 

You already know the design.

 

The cage is meant to prevent the use of dark magic within it, and even if you could conjure up your light magic, you doubt even that would make a difference.

 

So really, all you have to do is wait for something to change. For someone to realize that none of this has been your doing and hope the figures don’t advance their attacks.

 

You can’t afford to lose anyone.

 

Losing yourself is enough.

 

* * *

 

Occasionally the figures lurk in the shadows of the cave with their dark chuckles and soundless footsteps. They’re trying to intimidate you, but all they’re managing to do is piss you off.

 

Eventually one dares to get close to you, its mannerisms taunting. _Bet you miss your colors now, don’t you?_

 

You hadn’t thought about it, but nothing near you has any color.

 

Deep down, a part of you knows it’s because this area is mostly made up of browns, of dirt and rocks, but it stings nonetheless that the one thing that made you feel slightly more human, slightly more hopeful, has been taken away from you.

 

It’s an unseen revenge, how you let your mind drift to Regina in the hopes that you’ll be able to see anything at all, even if it isn’t there, but you don’t. And not only that, but the figure closest to you chuckles as if it knows what you just failed to achieve.

 

It’s the last straw.

 

You thrust your hand between the bars and into the the figure’s chest—in the part where its heart ought to be. Your fingers curl around something that feels like a heart but colder and icier than you recognize, and you pull your hand back, gripping the organ and taking it from the figure’s body.

 

It staggers back, and you grin down, triumphant until you realize the heart isn’t colored.

 

It’s as black and white as the space around you.

 

You let out a soundless sob as your fingers loosen, and you wonder if succumbing to dark magic in such a violent way has stolen your colors for good or if the figures’ cold hearts don’t light up the same as a real and living person’s.

 

Your first thought is to give into the anger you feel burning you up from the inside and throw the heart against the cave wall, not even willing to give the figure the satisfaction of crushing it. But then you see it.

 

The faintest glow in the core of the heart.

 

It’s a little pink, but it gets darker with each passing second, and you grin up at the figure with a menacing smile.

 

 _Please,_ it begs.

 

You scoff.

 

There’s no way to know for sure if you can kill it or not, but you’re not about to give up the possibility, so you squeeze the heart between your fingers, relishing in the pained grunt that comes from the figure on the other side of the cage.

 

 _The others will find out,_ it says. _We’ll make sure you never leave this cell, and that if you do, everyone will hate you_.

 

“No, you won’t,” you hiss back in a sharp whisper. “You won’t live long enough, and no one is here to know what happened.”

 

 _I can help you,_ the figure admits, straining as you grip its heart tighter. You don’t believe it.

 

“Why would you?”

 

 _Because this isn’t living_ , it says, and you blink in surprise. _My heart is cold. Yours is too. It always will be unless you end this. End_ us _._

 

“What are you talking about?” you ask, your voice dropping dangerously low.

 

It whispers the answers to you, and it’s all so unexpected that you can’t help but believe it.

 

But you also can’t let this one get away.

 

You can’t trust it with whatever semblance of a life it has.

 

It whimpers when you squeeze the heart again, now growing a bright purple that has you mesmerized. Your eyes remain locked on the still cold organ as it turns to dust in your hand.

 

You hear the figure’s body hit the floor as the ashes slip from your hand, now truly colorless, and there’s a moment of silence before you hear another gasp.

 

You freeze.

 

“Emma?”

 

Regina is the last person you were expecting to see, but your shoulders sag in relief when you realize she isn’t another figure, but when you see the shocked look of disbelief written on her face, you tense again, torn between stepping back to hide and reaching out to plead your innocence.

 

"How long have you been here?" you ask.

 

Her face is enough to inform you know she saw the heart in your hands, and she saw you crush it. But she answers you anyway. "I was just coming to check on you. I haven't been here long, but I saw—" she looks away suddenly, like she can't finish the sentence.

 

You look away too, down at the figure, clearly corporeal, sprawled on the ground. If Regina saw it, that means things are changing. Changing, like the way the heart went from colorless to a bright purple, its hue seeming to become more clear the closer the other woman got to you, slowly bringing the purple to life.

 

“Of course,” you mutter. Regina frowns.

 

“What?”

 

“Purple,” is all you offer in response. You know it doesn't make sense to her, but that’s okay. It doesn’t need to.

 

You know what this situation looks like.

 

You know what the figure had told you—about _ending_ things.

 

You know what you need to do.

 

(And the color is probably arbitrary anyway.)

 

* * *

 

A part of you is worried it’ll take a long time to convince Regina that _this isn't what it looks like_ , but she surprises you.

 

(She always does.)

 

“I trust you, Emma,” she says, and you can see the sincerity as she takes bold steps toward you. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

 

You take a deep breath as she steps closer, your head resting against the cage, your fingers gripping the bars.

 

Your eyes are closed and you aren’t sure what to expect, so when you feel a soft hand over yours, you look up in surprise, your wide eyes seeking the dark eyes you miss the brown hues of.

 

How much should you say? How much would she believe?

 

When you finally speak up, your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, but Regina is close enough that it doesn’t matter. She’ll be able to hear you.

 

“I don’t want to be the Dark One anymore,” you whisper.

 

“But you are,” Regina points out.

 

You shake your head. “I know how to destroy the darkness.”

 

Regina sneaks you out of the cage with no other reason than the fact that she believes you.

 

The statement leaves you more than just a little flabbergasted, but the other woman just shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. "We’ve all had our moments, Emma. But I have no reason to doubt you so much that you have to stay locked up."

 

She takes your hand the minute you’ve stepped out of the cage, and this time you can see the purple of the smoke as it envelops you and takes you both away.

 

* * *

 

You kept your eyes open for the whole journey, which means you feel dizzier than you normally would, but if it also means you didn’t have to take your eyes off of the purple, it was definitely worth it.

 

You sway on the spot at first, unsure of everything around you, with the exception of Regina, whose eyes don’t leave you even after you’ve found your footing.

 

“So,” she starts, moving around her vault, looking for some kind of solution she can’t possibly know about. You watch her, waiting for the inevitable, thinking of everything that needs to be done, of all that you’ll lose.

 

She doesn’t look at you until she hears you crying, and you don’t realize you’re crying until she looks at you.

 

“Emma?”

 

You take a deep breath before you tell her everything. You tell her about the figures—the way they were just in your mind but now they’re everywhere. You tell her about how they tried to pull you away, how they tried to wash away your colors, how they set you up to look like a villain when everything bad that had happened was their fault. You tell her about how to get rid of the darkness forever.

 

You tell her that you became the Dark One with a sacrifice, and it will take another sacrifice to take the darkness from the world forever.

 

She’s quiet when you stop talking.

 

She stares at you like she’s waiting for the punchline you don’t want to give her.

 

You know that she knows what this means, but you were hoping you wouldn’t have to spell it out for her.

 

You swallow hard as she takes a step toward you, a fire in her eyes prepared to stop you.

 

“But to get rid of the darkness, you still have to put it in someone.”

 

She pauses.

 

“And sacrifice them.”

 

She pauses again.

 

The seconds drag on.

 

“Who?”

 

This time, you are the one to pause.

 

Your tears haven’t stopped. You can’t look away from her.

 

There’s a moment when you think you can see the familiar dark brown of her eyes, but your vision is too blurred by tears to be sure. One thing you’re certain you see is the crack in her determination, the passion behind her eyes pleading with you to find another way.

 

You can see your own words reflecting back to you in her eyes.

 

_You’ve worked too hard to have your happiness destroyed._

 

When you finally find your voice to answer her, it comes out strangled.

 

“Me.”

  

 

“You’re not dying.”

 

You open your mouth to try and argue with Regina, something you have learned is completely pointless, but you’re going to do it anyways. She shakes her head with a pointed look.

 

“Emma, this isn't up for debate. I’ll help clear your innocence. We can kidnap one of the figures since they’re clearly not just figments of your imagination. We’re _going_ to figure this out. _You're_ _not dying,_ ” she repeats, emphasizing every word, her eyes burning with fierce determination.

 

All you can do is nod.

 

* * *

 

At the very least, Regina’s plan is effective.

 

You’re able to turn everyone back to their normal flesh and bone state, and you can walk down the street without much trouble. Not many people talk to you, but it only makes sense that they need some distance from the situation, same as you do.

 

Even though for you, it’s ongoing.

 

Most of your colors have returned to you, but they still haven’t all come back. Things that are orangish and brown remain grayscale, but that’s the least of your worries.

 

With more colors in your repertoire, there are even more figures.

 

A lot of them hide, remaining undetected by Storybrooke’s citizens who don’t realize they need to be looking out for them, but they don't get by you. You see every single one of them, hidden or not, and you’re sure that some are still cloaked so that no one else could even if they tried.

 

Regina eyes you warily, sensing that something is wrong, but she knows you, so she doesn’t push you to open up about it. You appreciate that more than anything, especially when you make the decision to sneak off and find a way to get rid of the darkness on your own.

 

Maybe you’re getting your colors back.

 

Maybe you’re free to walk down the street again.

 

Maybe you have people on your side.

 

But the figures aren’t leaving, they still want you to join them or pay the price.

 

You’re still the Dark One—

 

and unless you do what needs to be done, no one is safe.

 

* * *

 

You already disposed of your sole source of information, so your only plan now is to search for a new one. You dress back down into your own clothes, forfeiting your Dark One outfit just as you’ll be forfeiting the whole identity in hopefully what is only a matter of time.

 

It’s a problem that most of the figures are fighting to end you—glaring at you and whispering about how they know what you’re up to and that they’re going to stop you, but eventually another figure gets in your way and pulls you to the side.

 

_I know what you’re trying to do._

 

At first, you panic, thinking they are just there to hurt you, but its head shakes once under the billowing cloak.

 

 _I want to help you_.

 

You stare at it stunned, wishing you could see its face under the hood just for the sake of context clues. But all it takes is one nod from you, and the figure’s cold hand grips your wrist, and you both go up in smoke.

 

When you open your eyes, you’re in Gold’s shop.

 

 _Wait here_ , the figure tells you.

 

You nod and wait.

 

You count to ten fifteen times before the figure returns, tucking something under its robes. You want to ask what it is, but before you can, you hear the figure whisper _it’s the weapon_ , and you don’t want to hear anything else, despite having been told it all before.

 

But you’re told again anyway.

 

 _Sacrifice_.

 

Other than needing the right weapon and the right distribution of darkness, the key element is sacrifice.

 

(So really it’s a good thing you’ve been preparing for this all along.)

 

Regina hadn’t known you were going to sacrifice yourself _that day_ , when the darkness twisted around her like a snake, and she isn’t going to know that you’re going to do it today either. Of course, she’d heard what you told her, but what she doesn’t know is that it’s still happening.

 

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

 

Or at least that’s how the saying goes.

 

But the fact of the matter is that once you’ve found yourself in the middle of the street, filled as much as any one person should be with darkness, ready to be stabbed through the chest with the sword meant to destroy it all, your eyes meet Regina’s across the street, and suddenly all you know is there's nothing about this that _won’t_ hurt her.

 

She’s the last thing you see before you feel the blade run you through.

 

Your vision fades out and takes the color with it.

 

But then you realize—

 

Nothing is fading so much as it is brightening.

 

Where you should have a wound, where you expected darkness to spill out of your gut like a slime, there’s instead a beaming light, growing brighter with every passing second.

 

It’s so overwhelming that you’re having trouble breathing, but there isn’t any pain, which is both unsettling and relieving, and it takes you back to that moment—your previous sacrifice.

 

_You clench the dagger in your hand as you thrust your arm up into the darkness, holding your ground as the blue vortex pulls away from Regina and instead travels down your arm. It hurts more than you can fathom, but nothing else matters, so long as Regina’s happiness can remain._

 

The sword is pulled from you and you stagger back. Everything feels so open that it’s hard to stand and stay balanced. There aren’t any forces pushing and pulling, claiming you as its victim—rather, they’re releasing you from its hold. For a moment you feel weightless, and you fall back,

 

_Your energy is pulled from you as you seek out Regina’s gaze, catching her pained expression at the last minute before so much darkness surrounds you, banded too thick to see through. Bright blue fills the space around you, and somehow even then, you knew it would be your last glimpse of color before dark magic took you over._

 

Your eyes are open, but you can’t see. You want to know that Regina is okay, or if she’s still watching this—if she knows what this means for her and Henry and everyone else. They’ll be safe. The light is so bright that it’s blinding and impossible to tell if you can see the color of it or if it’s just a pure white light. You swear you can see the faint glint of orange before it becomes too much and your vision goes white.

  

 

For the first time, you see all your colors again.

 

Faintly.

 

But they’re all there.

 

Though maybe it’s because it only makes sense for your _memories_ to retain color since that’s the way you remember them. But nevertheless, you’re happy to see them, even if this is your life flashing before your eyes.

 

It’s all there.

 

You can see Regina at the town line, taking your hand in hers, and not only can you see it and hear it, you can feel it _. My gift to you is good memories_.

 

You see Regina without you, eyes on a red jacket at an empty desk, and it makes you fight harder to stay alive, even if you’re not sure if you’re dying.

 

You see Regina separated from you with just a door. You can feel the drive to make everything better. You remember what you said then, telling her that your job was to bring back the happy endings _for everyone._

 

_Including Regina._

 

You can’t go yet.

 

You see her worried face at the mines, urging you to help her. The first time the two of you ever seemed to be on the same page, fighting for your son.

 

You see _she’s not dying_ , and you see _unique or maybe even special ,_ and you see _I don’t want to kill you_ and, you see _I know her; I believe her._

 

You see Regina doubting herself, and you see Regina keeping you from doing the same.

 

You see the small touches and the big ones. The group hugs shared with Henry. You hear her say _our_ son. You hear her say _my_ family. You see that look in her eyes when she smiles at you, and you can feel the glow in your chest everytime she does.

 

 _You’ve worked too hard to have your happiness destroyed,_ you said.

 

 _I made you a promise I intend to keep_ , you told her.

 

You see Regina’s smile.

 

You can’t go yet.

 

The colors had faded as your memories dissipated, but suddenly they are so bright that you’re disoriented.

 

Your eyes are open.

 

You see them burst around you in a giant wave, and not just one or two but the entire spectrum, exploding from the place you’re laying on the ground and from the space where Regina’s looking down at you with wide eyes, her cheeks flushed a bright pink and her lips parted just slightly.

 

“Regina?”

 

“Emma,” she says, her voice breathless as she squeezes your hand with one of hers.

 

You squeeze back.

 

“Hi.”

 

She releases a wet laugh, melodic and happy and you smile up at her, laughing as you remember the way all the colors came back to you one by one, all because of Regina. Green when your fingers brushed against hers. Red when she said your name. Yellow when you thought of her. Blue when you felt her magic around you. Purple when she moved closer. Orange when you couldn't lose her.

 

Rainbow when she brought you back to life with a kiss.

 

You admire all the colors you can see without having to take your eyes off the woman in front of you, and you sit up so you can kiss her again. She smiles against your lips, and her hand comes to rest on your face, brushing blonde hair to the side after you part. Her eyes are back to the way you remember them, and you've never seen a brown so colorful.

 

Regina kisses you again before she meets your gaze. "Really gives color to our relationship, doesn't it?"

 

You laugh, full and loud enough to startle Regina. You grin as you lean in to kiss her again. "You have no idea."

**Author's Note:**

> if you _haven’t_ seen nic’s video STILL, [i’m gonna need you to correct that ASAP.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676707) if you _have _seen it, i’m gonna need you to[watch it again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676707) and send all the praise her way for it because it is beautiful. you have five hyperlinks and exactly zero excuses.__
> 
>  
> 
>  _Writers and artists spent months creating the fics and art you enjoy - it would mean the world to them if you commented to tell them what you liked! The SQSupernova team is also sponsoring a contest for commenters, and you can find out more_[here](http://sqsupernova.tumblr.com/post/177527168129/the-swan-queen-supernova-comments-contest-returns).  
> 


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